Walter and a league investigator remained nearby.
Grant sat in the first row behind home plate.
Without uniform, cameras, or teammates, he looked smaller.
Malik stood near the railing.
Grant began with an apology.
Malik stopped him.
“Did you know my father was innocent of stealing those bats?”
Grant looked down.
“I heard rumors.”
“That means yes.”
“I didn’t know for certain.”
“Did you ever ask?”
“No.”
“Did you know the medical reports were false?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know they kept teams from signing him?”
“Yes.”
Malik waited.
Grant rubbed his hands together.
“When I entered the league, everyone told me there was room for one star.”
“So you chose yourself.”
“Yes.”
“Why mock me yesterday?”
Grant looked toward the field.
“Because you were right.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does if you spent your whole career afraid the person you replaced was better.”
The honesty did not excuse him.
But it finally explained the anger.
Every inside fastball reminded Grant of Darius.
The same closed shoulder.
The same quick hands.
Then a ball boy named Turner quietly identified the flaw Grant had never fixed.
Grant was no longer looking at a child.
He was looking at the return of the comparison that built his career.
“I thought if I embarrassed you, everyone would laugh and move on.”
“They laughed.”
“Yes.”
“Until I hit the ball.”
Grant nodded.
« Jusqu’à ce que tu frappes la balle. »
Malik regarda vers le champ gauche.
« Pourquoi ne lui as-tu pas dit de reculer ? »
Grant faillit sourire.
